FWT Chronicles – Georgia Edition #4 – Local Activities: Hat-Making & Cooking

ადგილობრივი აქტივობები: ქუდების დამზადება და საჭმლის მომზადება [Adgilobrivi aktivobebi: kudebis damzadeba da sachmlis momzadeba]

Since the Kaseb face was no longer viable, we had to find a new face for the competition.

Unfortunately, the snow had its own plans, forcing us to wait before rescheduling the event on the Kakhiani face. So, we found ourselves with a free week to fill. Bored? Not a chance. Our Georgian hosts had plenty of tricks up their sleeves and weren’t about to let us roam the hotel hallways aimlessly.

Thus began a series of local and rather eccentric activities.

A Headpiece for Martin

First up: a traditional hat-making workshop. In Svaneti, most Georgians wear sheepskin hats. They come in various colors—black, gray (with about fifty shades of gray, in case you were wondering), and white.

Historically, these hats were believed to cure headaches and offer protection, thanks to the cross-shaped cord adorning the top.

So, we piled into our usual Mitsubishi Delicas and set off for another unknown destination. Though the village was small, we still managed to take a different road every day. As for the road conditions, you already know the drill: snowy and bumpy.

After thirty minutes of a rough ride, we arrived at the entrance of a tiny village. A few crumbling buildings, three Svaneti towers, and lots of snow blocking the house doors. As we tried to enter this little kingdom, we encountered a formidable blockade: a herd of cows had set up camp in the middle of the road. With honks and persistence, our driver attempted to clear the way. Patience was key. One by one, and with much grumbling, the cows slowly moved aside, leaving us just enough space to squeeze through. After a few more reluctant groans, our driver parked in front of the workshop. When I say ‘workshop,’ I mean a small room in a backyard, where a few wary dogs eyed us as we passed.

Loud voices echoed from inside. We stepped into a dimly lit space, its darkness due to a current power outage. The riders attending the workshop were already there, huddled around a wooden table. At either end of the table sat Martin Bender and our Georgian host, locked in an intense battle—an arm-wrestling match. The old versus the young. The weathered hand of a laborer against the fresh grip of a rider. Who would win? At first glance, it felt like watching David take on Goliath. Martin didn’t seem to stand a chance. But surprisingly, despite his grimaces, he held on. The hands barely moved, just a few wobbles adding suspense to the duel. The whole Valais crew—Simon, Liam, Maxime, Jenna, and Eli—cheered him on. Even in Georgia, it felt like Martin was playing on home turf.

The duel dragged on, both fighters reaching their limits. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the Georgian suddenly let go, and Martin slammed his opponent’s hand onto the table. Victory for FC Sion! Laughter erupted as everyone took their seats—some on chairs, others on tables, whatever was available. We gathered in a semi-circle around a small table, illuminated only by the few rays of sunlight piercing through the room.

Then, through a hidden door, the matriarch of the house entered. Dressed in traditional clothing, her head covered with a veil depicting the Virgin Mary, she greeted us with a warm smile and placed two hat patterns—one gray, one white—made from goat skin on the table. She then settled onto a small stool. Everyone was attentive. The lesson was about to begin. With the help of a translator, she explained that the tradition of hat-making had been passed down in her family for over two centuries. The hats were made from locally sourced goat hides. Everything, 100% local.

She stood up and, using a large rolling pin, began flattening the circular hide on the table. She pressed firmly. Then, a young boy—presumably her grandson—entered, carrying a basin of water and soap, which he quickly placed at her feet before scurrying away, intimidated by the number of strangers in his home. The matriarch meticulously removed impurities from the wool with a small pair of tweezers, then took off her glasses to continue her explanation. Traditionally, the wool was softened with animal fat, applied in small doses and spread thin. Today, soap had replaced fat.

After the theory, time for practice. Using a plastic bottle, she sprinkled soapy water over the wool and began kneading it like dough. After several minutes, she repeated the process. I won’t lie—it was a bit long! Luckily, her son, David, noticing our waning enthusiasm, suggested a popular local activity: homemade chacha tasting. Within moments, he produced a dozen shot glasses seemingly out of nowhere. A round for everyone! One by one, we were called up, cheered and applauded as we received our shots. Then, David gave a toast, thanking us for visiting their home, for bringing the FWT to Svaneti, and for boosting tourism, which helped many families. He wished all the riders success in the competition. Applause followed. Then, the inevitable: downing the 40+ proof alcohol in one go. Grimaces all around. We could feel the chacha burning all the way down. At least in -20°C weather, it kept us warm! Energized by the first toast and the enthusiastic applause, David launched a second round. At that moment, I stared at my empty glass, dreading the encore. Martin and Simon were the first to rise, rallying the troops. And so, another shot. Grimaces intensified, and several riders coughed after swallowing the fiery liquid.

Just as I feared a third round, the matriarch reclaimed the spotlight. She had finished working the wool and was ready for the next step. She placed the treated wool aside—it needed two days to dry—and pulled out a second, pre-dried piece. From under the table, she retrieved a centuries-old wooden hat mold, passed down through generations. Draping the wool over it, she skillfully shaped it into a hat, pulling, adjusting, and trimming the excess. And finally—tada! The hat was complete. Beaming, she crowned Martin with it, much to his delight.

Then, as if she had just remembered, she demonstrated the hat’s waterproof feature: pouring chacha into its folds and drinking it in one gulp. Applause erupted. Laughing, she began to dance, joined by Elisabeth, who eagerly followed her steps. It was a joyous, unforgettable moment.

We left with our newly purchased hats, navigating the icy roads back home. A fantastic experience!

It’s Time to Cook!

The next day, we set off for another 100% Georgian activity: a cooking class filled with local flavors. We are taken to a tiny village, this time lost in the middle of nature, with only three houses. We form a little queue as we make our way through 20 cm of freshly fallen snow. A few snowballs fly here and there, and the mood is full of laughter!

When we arrive at the house, we are signaled to go around the back—turns out, the kitchen is outside, in a sort of cabin. We are welcomed by the beaming smile of our instructor, who has already set up a table filled with ingredients. We recognize Svanetian spices, pre-made dough for khachapuri, meat, mushrooms, and freshly prepared cheeses. Our mouths start watering. At the back of the little cabin, a small wood stove serves as both a cooker and a heater for our chilly feet. We squeeze together and form a circle around the table.

As soon as we settle in, our host serves us homemade mulled wine, which had been warming on the stove. We sip it to warm up and watch her finalize the last preparations for her recipe. It starts with the cheese. It’s homemade, using milk from their cow. She explains that they make cheese every day. There are two types: one fresher than the other. She cuts it up and lets us taste it. Then, with the rest, she mixes it with flour, forming small dough balls that she flattens and places in a pan, generously drizzling them with oil. Then, she fries them on the stove. The aroma fills the air, and the sizzling oil creates a melody in the room.

Next, she opens one of the jars on the table and lets us smell it. It’s Svanetian salt—it has an orange tint and smells amazing. She seasons another piece of cheese and gives it to us to taste: the cheese has a completely different flavor, and I must admit, it’s delicious. She continues seasoning the rest of the cheese before grabbing the dough that had been resting. She cuts it in half, kneads it, and forms several small dough balls. Then, she stuffs them with cheese. And just like that, we have our first khachapuri!

She invites us to try as well. Noémie and Tom step up to the challenge, making one with spiced meat and mashed potatoes. Our two culinary experts finish their work—not without a few holes in the dough that our host has to patch up to avoid any accidents during baking—before we put them in the oven. A few extra logs are added to fuel the fire even more.

For the final recipe, she prepares something similar to aligot by mixing the second type of cheese into mashed potatoes. She stirs it vigorously, and the purée becomes stringy. It smells incredible, reminiscent of Sérac cheese, according to some.

Finally, she invites us inside to wait for the khachapuri to finish baking. We slip into a small room, lit only by candlelight—of course, there’s a power outage. Inside, we discover a real feast: everything had actually been prepared in advance. The three tables are overflowing with food. We sit down and begin what feels like our last meal, given the amount of food in front of us.

Then, an elderly man arrives, dressed in traditional clothing—the one with ammunition across the chest—carrying a strange musical instrument that looks like a small bow with a bowstring. The instrument appears old and handmade. He greets us and starts playing traditional music, singing along with the sound of his instrument.

The moment is solemn. We hum along with the tune he sings. It’s a beautiful moment of sharing, just like the many shots of chacha (Georgian brandy) that help us digest. Then, he invites Tom and Arianna to try on traditional outfits. The attire fits Arianna like a glove, and she even starts performing a Georgian dance, squatting as she moves. We all burst into laughter. The power is still out, but who cares? We don’t need electricity to have a good time.

We finish the meal on this high note, feeling a bit guilty about leaving so much unfinished food behind, but it was just too much. Thankfully, we are reassured—the leftovers will always be given to neighbors, visiting friends, or animals. We leave with a clear conscience, carrying little bags of Svanetian salt that were generously gifted to us.

The return trip follows the same vibe: a driver speeding through the darkness at full throttle, blasting Georgian music through the speakers. Truly, a night of all excesses!

by Victor Le Vély, PR & Media Coordinator